


The Wolf's Prey

by GraceHolmes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bored and not bored Sherlock, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5761807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceHolmes/pseuds/GraceHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Black Widow KGB agent Natalia Romonova runs into a junkie detective on the streets of London. Seven years later, she finds Sherlock Holmes again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 2003

**Author's Note:**

> A story inspired by experiences in the RP forum 'The Convergence' and redonpointe's wonderful characterization of Natasha Romanoff.

Natalia Alianovna Romonova was the best. She was unbreakable, unbeatable, and a shadow of an assassin. She was also all of nineteen years old, with more kills and missions under her belt than anyone would ever know.

She made a point of ensuring that no one knew the entirety of her past. Not her trainers, not her fellow agents, not her enemies. No one. Even now, and that was a pledge that would follow her the rest of her life.

London, December 2003. She'd been sent on another job. It was the first time she'd been sent to the United Kingdom, and she found she quite liked it. Earlier that day, she'd turned her face up to the sky to breath in the cold December air. There was a quiet somberness that came with the cold early-winter rain of England.

No one walking down the street with her had suspected she meant to kill a man that night. The KGB wanted someone dead, and Natalia was more than willing to comply. It was her job. It was what she'd been trained to do. It was what she was programed for. Jobs would be done without question, without mistake, and at whatever cost.

So with a blonde wig that hid her bright red hair, a server's outfit, and a confidence and array of skills that allowed her access to anywhere she wanted, the Black Widow walked into a foreign ambassador's small dinner party.

Ten minutes later, she walked out, task complete. She slipped out the back door and walked into the night just as the scream from the ambassador's wife echoed from the restaurant's courtyard. _Sooner than expected, pity._ Her black heels clicked on the pavement and she made just the slightest adjustment to her warm black coat. No need to rush away. No one would ever suspect or know she'd even been there, let alone killed him.

At least that's what she thought from past experience.

"You're good." A tired, almost bored, male voice called quietly from the shadows nearby.

Natalia considered just continuing her path down the street, but something pulled her to a stop when the man spoke. Her quick green eyes fixed almost instantly on where the voice came from, and found the outline of a figure sitting on the ground. He was leaning against a brick wall, tucked in between a tree and a bench, wrapped in a too big coat, with a mop of curly black hair. She couldn't see much else in the dim light, so she stepped towards him. "Excuse me?" She asked, her North London accent essentially flawless.

"I said: you're good. But you didn't need me to repeat that." He said again, just a bit louder this time.

"Sorry, I'm not sure what you're talking about." She continued. Her curiosity was piqued and the only thing she had to go back to was a quiet hotel room to wait out the hours before she was scheduled for collection. So she stayed.

"Two…no, three weapons on your person. And that's only the ones I deduced you have. Accent's _really_ good, I'll give you that, but so am I. I can't figure out what's original. Give it some time."

This time there was an identifiable sound in his voice, she'd seen her fair share of addicts. So she stopped when she was only a few feet away from him. The knife strapped to her thigh would be good enough to dispose of the junkie on the street if he turned out to be trouble. And he was getting there. "What do you want?"

He almost laughed, the sound was a huff and a quiet sigh. "Nothing huge, unless you've got heroin somewhere in your collection. Unlikely, so my next request is just confirmation that I'm right."

"A deadbeat junkie on the street is in no position to be making requests. If you are right, and I'm some sort of…spy, you do have a death wish." She commented, almost casually. Now that she was closer she was able to say he was in his mid-twenties and he was not high, not yet anyways. He was also very thin, too thin, and his angular bones contrasted the almost soft tiredness of his features.

He spoke again, casually, but his gaze was sharp and calculating. "Never said I didn't. I'm curious. Who'm I going to call about the murder? Who'd believe me? I just want to be right."

She moved in a blur. Her left hand grabbed his curly hair, her right held the knife and she remained standing over him. She tipped his head back quickly and placed the sharp blade against pale exposed skin. She leaned in to whisper. _Predator to prey._ "I could kill you."

"You made that fairly obvious." He said slowly. But there was an almost fear in his eyes - his bright clear indiscernible-colored eyes. "You won't. You're curious."

"You're disposable." She countered.

"Then kill me. I clearly have a death wish anyways."

Something was stopping her. Something that didn't want to stain the cold cement with more red. Something that didn't want those mesmerizing eyes to haunt her above all the other ones. But she didn't move, pulling his head back just a little bit more and pressing down only millimeters. The smallest twitch away from drawing blood. "Who are you?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because I want to read your obituary in the paper. Now who are you?"

He took just the smallest breath before he answered, honestly. "Sherlock Holmes."

 _Sherlock Holmes_. She committed the name to memory. This moment was the moment of decision. She could kill him. It'd be easiest. It'd be what the KGB would want her to do, it was what the Red Room trained her to do. Opponents were disposed of, people that were a liability were always put down. She knew this well.

But she didn't slice through his fragile skin. She didn't cross that line to watch his body twitch as it bled to death, she didn't hear his gasp and gurgle as blood poured out, she didn't watch those bright eyes dim lifelessly. She could have…but she didn't.

Instead she let him go and slipped the knife back to it's holder under her skirt. "You're good." She echoed his words from earlier.

"Apparently." Sherlock's voice deepened again, now that there wasn't a blade to his throat. Though he had to know that she could kill him just as easily without it. "Don't suppose I'll get a name from you?"

"Would you trust it if I did?"

"No."

Her lips twitched just slightly and she lowered herself. Straddling his currently outstretched legs, she kelt on the ground over his lap. It maintained dominance, but it also brought her closer than she'd been to someone under her own choice. She didn't have to be here, she could just walk away. But she was…curious.

"It's a wig." Sherlock said next as he studied her in the dim light. He didn't seem to be aroused, disturbed, or intimidated by her current position. "Natural hair color…" he reached and she didn't stop him. He pulled the wig off to reveal her wavy red hair. His expression was almost satisfied. "Red. I knew that."

Once again she was drawn to his eyes as she spoke. "Lying. You would have said if you knew."

This time he almost smirked and reached to slip the wig into her purse. "You're very good."

"I have to be."

"Agency? Or freelance?"

"Secrets aren't meant to be shared."

"Then why are you still here?" Sherlock tilted his head just slightly.

"Curiosity."

He didn't reply, just sat there and stared back at her, as if waiting for her further assessment. Just as curious. Tempting.

Natalia wasn't sure what to make of it. He was difficult to read, not an ordinary man in the slightest. He wasn't afraid anymore, all trace of fear had gone, as if he knew she wouldn't hurt him until he attacked first. She'd touched men before. But it had always been on the job, not by choice, save for one three years ago. She detested touching, and everything that that led too. But it was the job. It was a necessary skill for her to be unbreakable.

 _This_ man was different. This man who knew too much, who saw too much.

So with a slow hand she reached for him, cold fingers slipping from his defined cheekbone into his curly hair. Exploratory this time, not grabbing to harm. Despite being a junkie sitting outside like he was, he'd recently showered, so his hair was soft and silky. She watched his face, both trying to memorize it as well as gauge his reaction. There was none but the continued curiosity, as if he knew he was playing with something wild. The wolf and her prey.

She wasn't sure exactly why. She couldn't pin it down. Every move she made was executed with calculated efficiency and logic. _This_ move was entirely selfish. Curiosity.

She leaned forward to press her lips against his. They were cold and there was the subtle taste of cigarette over mint. But they were soft, and after a long moment…responsive. He didn't touch her otherwise. His hands stayed in his pockets. But he did kiss her back. And the feeling of appreciation and acceptance fluttered low in her belly until it washed over her with a honest warmth. She wasn't going to believe it. She couldn't let herself believe that he _saw_ her and _accepted_ her….save for this one moment.

Natalia broke the kiss when she was done and only after needing to breathe. She also needed to move on. Her green eyes opened to meet his mesmerizing mirror-like ones.

There were no parting words. No promise or gratitude or invitation to a bedroom. No left favors or tokens. And not her name. She would leave in understood silence. She slipped her hands out of his soft hair and stood up off of the ground. His hands were still in his pockets and his eyes were fixed on hers until she looked away.

She'd feel his eyes on her back as she continued walking, as she heard sirens in front of the dead ambassador's house. As she disappeared like a shadow in the darkness.

_Sherlock Holmes._

She'd remember that name.


	2. February 2011

Seven years of struggles later. Seven years which included the life-altering decision that was her chance to get out of the KGB. Seven years was a long time, and much had happened for her between the good, the bad, and the ugly. Natasha Romanoff was still a legend, but now she was working for S.H.I.E.L.D. She was fighting to right her wrongs, and more importantly find atonement.

To maybe wipe some of the red off of her ledger. It was an arduous and daunting task.

London, February 2011. Natasha Romanoff was working a freelance mission to hunt down a crime boss with a deadly toxin. Many lives hung in the balance. As always, it seemed.

She accomplished the mission with relative ease, since she'd jumped on it as soon as she got the information. One nasty drug lord down. So she was camped out in her hotel room, waiting out the night before she'd hop on a plane back to New York. She was halfway through room service's fish and chips when she heard the name. Distant and on the news she wasn't really paying attention to.

_"…Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, testifies for…"_

Her head whipped around so fast her long red hair fanned out and her eyes fixed on the television. _Sherlock Holmes._ With that name brought a memory of a cold forbidden kiss after she'd threatened to kill a junkie on the street. The name was too familiar not to remember once she heard it again.

The news reel didn't show a picture of him, but she remembered those eyes. She was on her computer not a moment later. A quick search pulled up his website 'The Science of Deduction' and she couldn't help the smile that turned her lips as she read through the comments and posts. "Well, well, _kotyonok,_ you've made a name for yourself."

The name and address and phone number were on the website. An impulsive curious decision later, she slipped away to change into something a bit more formal. Within ten minutes, she was hailing a cab clad in a black dress, long coat, and shiny heels.

221B Baker Street. The building was empty at the moment, except for the landlady, who'd likely gone to bed already. So she let herself in as quietly as possible. No one would hear her, obviously. She didn't leave any trace of her presence, and just made her way up the stairs. Her quick green eyes scanned the room in the dim light of the single lamp.

It was cluttered with things; and after toeing her heels off, she took her time investigating. From the skull, to the notes on the wall, to the cigarettes she found stashed in a slipper, the flat was without a doubt intriguing. Eventually she sat down in what only could be his chair and crossed her legs. She had her phone out and decided to read through his blogger's posts until someone interrupted her.

Twenty-four minutes later, she heard the door open downstairs. A small smile ghosted her face. It disappeared soon after, as did the phone, and she fixed her eyes on the open door. Waiting.

Surprise, confusion, suspicion, intrigue, and something unidentifiable flashed over Sherlock Holmes' features as he stepped into the room. He was similar to how she remembered him, those clear eyes, the curly hair, sharp features. He was fuller though, less bean pole and more muscle. He paused halfway out of his black coat, staring at the woman occupying his chair. Eventually he spoke. His voice was deep as she remembered and his tone was casual. "A woman in my living room. It's good my blogger isn't here."

"Why?" She asked, coming off just as casual. She kept her usual American accent now.

"Because he has the unfortunate habit of staring with his mouth open in shocked silence when it's a beautiful woman. Which isn't a bad thing when I think about it, but I'm not sure if you're here to kill me or not. I'd rather him have at least a fighting chance." Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf, and came back towards the two chairs.

"Who says I'm here to kill you?"

Sherlock sat down in John's chair and looked her over. "Because you're hard to deduce. You're a trained killer and you broke into my flat in the middle of the night."

"You've gotten better since the last time we met, I think you can at least get something else. Am I here to kill you?"

"You're armed. Not a surprise, I doubt you are ever far away from a weapon of some kind, or something that can be used as a weapon. You've been through my flat already. Probably know about the website, and my flatmate, otherwise you wouldn't be here. You're indisputably good at avoiding cameras, otherwise my brother's minions would be here already and you'd be gone. If you were here to kill me, you wouldn't just stay and chat first. You wouldn't chance being seen by anyone. As much of a predator as you are, you don't normally play with your food first."

"And you're still good." This time she smiled, slowly and almost dangerously. "The website was adorable, by the way. And quite helpful, if you have more information to add to the tobacco ash, I'd love to peruse it."

He made a hum of approval and agreement, but asked a question. "Do I get a name today?"

She answered without hesitation. The truth. "Natalia Alianovna Romonova. I go by Natasha Romanoff now."

"You're in America for the most part these days, defected there, it seems, from…the KGB?" Sherlock said, his hands steepled in front of his chest and his eyes fixed on her. "Unless of course, it's a part of your ruse. Unlikely, but I'm not ruling it out, we've only known each other less than ten minutes."

"It was a good ten minutes though." Natasha commented in an almost flirt. Which he didn't notice.

His fingers tapped together and his head tilted just slightly as he asked a question. "Why are you here now?"

"Answer that question yourself." She challenged.

Sherlock Holmes was quiet a moment as he stared at her, the gears turning in his head as he attempted to deduce why she was there. It must have been a minute at least before he spoke. "You're…curious. You were in London, on a mission or hit, you've recently travelled. You must have heard my name on the news, I just solved a big case and they attempted an interview again, it's only expected. Having remembered my name, you looked me up, found my website which led you here."

"Spot on." Natasha replied with an approving nod. "I'm with S.H.I.E.L.D. now, not the KGB."

"S.H.I.E.L.D." Sherlock repeated thoughtfully. "Curious."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Curious." Natasha uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. "Are you curious about me?"

This time he almost smirked. "Extremely. You're a puzzle and I'm enjoying trying to deduce you, _Natalia_."

"Good." She smiled just a bit at the use of her Russian name, and met his eyes purposefully. "And what do you deduce about me now?"

Sherlock stared at her again, his brow furrowed and his fingers tapping together. But it was as she so lithely stood up that the pieces seemed to click together for him. "Ah. Yes. It's…it's been a long time."

"For me too. Since I got away from the KGB for the more…intimate activities." Natasha said as she stood in front of him. "Do you trust me?"

"Almost." He stated impassively, eyes always fixed on her face rather than anywhere else. "I've come to the decision you're probably not going to kill me. At least not tonight. An ambitious venture, but I'm sure if anyone could, it'd be you."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Possibly."

Natasha smiled as she looked down at him in the chair. "Can I kiss you?"

Sherlock raised a brow but remained otherwise still. "Going to ask this time? That is an improvement."

"That's not an answer."

He tilted his head slightly and looked her over, his sharp gaze penetrating so deep she nearly felt naked. She didn't mind. He asked one question. "Why?"

"Call it curiosity, call it stress-relief, call it admiration, or maybe even an apology for attempting to kill you seven years ago." She replied. "…it's okay if you say no. But I can't be the only one who's curious."

"Yes." He paused and then corrected himself. "Yes, I'm curious. I believe I said that already." He paused again, studying her in the same way. She stared back. Blue and green and nothing but silence.

He took the initiative, his long hand reaching almost hesitantly for her arm. He pulled her towards him and she moved willingly. She slowly straddled his lap, her hands just resting on her thighs even though she wanted to touch him.

"You're dangerous." He said, tilting his head a bit as he studied her again. "Dangerously intelligent and quite perceptive."

"You like it." She countered, a smirk barely ghosting her lips.

"Accurate." He admitted.

"You just solved a case, Sherlock Holmes." Natasha said, almost hesitantly bringing one of her hands up to his cheek. "Are you bored?"

"Not particuarly, not at the moment at least." He admitted again, still not visibly effected by her closeness. "Surprisingly not. I like deducing you. You're a challenge."

She smiled one more time, close lipped and predatory. Wolf and her prey. Except this prey was playing back. And that's exactly how she wanted it to be. As before, her next move was selfish and hinged entirely on curiosity. She leaned the rest of the way in and brought their lips together.

It wasn't fervent or even deep. _Yet._ And it took a moment for him to respond, just like the first one. Since their second kiss took seven years to happen, slow and steady seemed appropriate.

Very soon, his hands were lightly trailing her back and her hands were buried in his curly hair, still soft and silky. She was buzzing with the feeling, with his touch and the physical connection. She was taking a chance, and could already feel herself getting attached.

"Are you busy the rest of the night?" She asked breathlessly after she'd pulled away.

"No, I just solved a case." Sherlock replied, his voice just a bit deeper and his eyes dilated. "Why?"

"Good. I've got plans if you're interested in deducing me, sharing stories...or just not thinking, if you're so inclined." Natasha smiled, predatory as would be a usual. He hummed his approval and she caught him in another deep unrelenting kiss. He responded instantly and she let herself go.

_There are stories about wolves and girls. Girls in red. All alone in the woods. About to get eaten up. Wolves and girls...both have sharp teeth._ If Natalia Alianovna Romonova had sharp teeth, William Sherlock Scott Holmes saw and respected them. They played a dangerous game in general, life and work and saving the world. It was only fitting they played it together too.

_Fin._

* * *

A/N: Italicized expert taken from 'The Name of the Rose' a Black Widow comic. Thanks for reading, please review! :)


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